


Last night you told me: tomorrow

by lbmisscharlie



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Christmas, Families of Choice, Multi, Queer Families, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 19:26:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7187012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Come on, darling,” she says, feeling daring. This is the edge of something, something that has been building since the first time Phryne stomped into the City South Police Station. Perhaps since Mac linked arms with her on the docks of the port, gleeful to be reunited with her friend after many years’ absence. Things will be different tomorrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last night you told me: tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tartanfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tartanfics/gifts).



They were trying Christmas in July again, heading up the mountains laden with woolen jumpers and wooden skis, and hoping for fewer murders this time.

“Notice she didn’t say _no_ murders,” Mac murmurs to Jack as they carry suitcases to the car. 

“That’d be far too much to ask,” Jack responds. Over the bonnet of the car, Phryne arches one eyebrow; Mac smiles placidly back. 

It takes Phryne’s car and Bert and Cec’s cab to get them all up to the cabin, Phryne’s little collective. Mac does still marvel at the way Phryne’s able to gather and keep all these people, though she shouldn’t: after all, she’s stuck around, and it’s been years since they met hauling bloody bodies in the War. Mac sits pressed between Dot and Jack, quickly warmed by their woolen-layered bodies. Jane, who professes carsickness, sits in the front, though in their many trips together Mac has seen nary a green tinge to her cheeks. She suspects that Phryne is fond of indulging her after months away at school.

Phryne takes the sharp mountain switchbacks just a hair too fast, of course, leaving the three of them shuttling against one another on every corner. Dot grips tight to the door handle, fingers whitening; on one sharpish turn, she grabs ahold of Mac’s hand, too. Mac doesn’t let go, and Dot sends her a grateful glance.

This leaves her pressed close to Jack, who smells faintly of hair oil and minty shave balm. His response to Phryne’s wide grin in the rearview mirror after a particularly steep climb is an indulgent laugh, and suddenly, there in the tight, too-warm car, Mac feels an overwhelming fondness for Phryne’s little family.

++

It does feel like Christmas, but an otherworldly, idyllic sort that none of them have ever really had before. A tree twice as tall as Mac, dripping with wooden nutcrackers and glass icicles; fairy lights on its branches and twinkling candles on the mantel; gifts exchanged, wrapped in paper, ribbons, and bows; and the evening ended with hot spiced wine – alternated with tots of whiskey – that leaves them all languid, happy, and fond. And there are no murders at all.

After one mugful, Jane falls asleep on the sofa, to be carried up to her room by Bert. Mr. Butler quietly retires, Dot sleepily yawns and trips up the stairs, and after Bert and Cec wander off to find more whiskey and then presumably get lost in the kitchen amidst the remains of Mr. Butler’s excellent supper, Mac, Phryne, and Jack are left alone, the light fading as the candles burn low. 

Mac sprawls in one of the cabin’s excellent armchairs – splayed wide frame and worn velvet, it has the kind of comfortable plushness Mac associates with her own yearning imagination in those long years of war, a sort of middling luxury she thought might be wiped away. Between her legs, Phryne sits cross-legged, one elbow propped on Mac’s knee, dress hiked up to her thighs. Mac watches Phryne watch Jack; she absently rubs the side of Phryne’s head, like she might a languid cat. The toggles of Jack’s jumper are unhooked, his neck bare and golden, Adam’s apple shadowed in the low light. His laugh, at Phryne’s words, is dark and heavy as syrup.

There is a whole vast carpet and a low-slung, dark-polished table between them in the chair and him on the sofa, but she can feel the way Phryne leans into them both, into Mac’s caressing hand and Jack’s small, fond smile. Mac wonders at the boundaries the two of them keep, to stop themselves from falling into each other and combusting.

Phryne says something about France, starts telling some story about their adventures there. Not the bloody ones, the ones from later, before Mac came back home. She’s not really paying attention to the words, watching the way Phryne’s hair falls through her fingers, the way she arches her neck to allow Mac’s hands to caress the firm taut muscle there; Mac can feel the thrum of Phryne’s larynx under her fingertips and the responding heat in her own gut.

She catches a name – Phillipe – and it snaps her to attention. Phryne is tipping her head back, looking up at Mac upside-down, asking, “Don’t you remember Phillipe?” with a curling cat-like grin. Mac feels heat run up her cheeks, for she does, of course, remember Phillipe, remembers guiding his cock into Phryne’s cunt and then spreading herself wide for Phryne’s mouth.

They haven’t many times: once with Phillipe, another time with Esme, a handful of times just themselves. But the way Phryne’s looking at her now, the way her hand has come to circle, just gently, the bare jut of Mac’s ankle above her tartan slippers, make an portentous, uncertain thrill course through her body. 

She looks up at Jack – his mouth wet and parted, a wayward lock of hair falling over his temple, his eyes heavy, intent on Phryne – and then back to Phryne, and nods. Her grin spreads, upside-down and disorienting, and she says, to Jack though she keeps her gaze intent on Mac, who feels its heat in her cunt, “We got very close to Phillipe, the two of us.”

“Yes?” Jack says. His eyes are on the exposed line of Phryne’s throat. 

Phryne tilts her head, kisses Mac’s hand, and says, “Yes.” In one movement, more grace than any reasonable person should have in a gown and one too many cups of mulled wine, Phryne swings her legs under her and turns, kneeling between Mac’s legs, elbows on Mac’s knees. She leans forward, slowly, slowly, and Mac feels her pull like a magnet, bending forward until Phryne presses her mouth to Mac’s, warm and soft. 

Phryne’s thumbs press into the soft flesh on the inside of her thighs, her hands warm even through Mac’s wool trousers. Her mouth tastes of spice and whiskey; when she exhales, it is hot and damp on Mac’s lips. Bringing her hands between them, Mac cups Phryne’s breasts through her dress, enjoying her pleased little gasp when she rubs her thumbs over her nipples. They’ve known each other for more than a decade, and she has never once been able to look at one of Phryne’s gowns without wondering how much of her body she’d be able to feel under it, sometimes idly, sometimes with intent, and always with the awareness of the way Phryne picks layers of silk and wool, satin and velvet, dense embroidery and heavy beadwork because of the pleasure of all those textures brushing up against her skin.

Phryne is a hedonist; sometimes it is all Mac can do to not drown in the cup she offers.

When Phryne pulls away, her lips are flushed red and wet, under the barest hint of lipstick mostly smeared away over the evening. She grins, lazily, and leans her body into Mac’s hands. Mac’s gaze flicks up to Jack.

His knees are spread as he leans forward, on the edge of the sofa seat. He doesn’t register her look at first; she watches the way he takes in the curve of Phryne’s hips, the pert rise of her backside, the long bare expanse of her neck as she drops her head to rest against Mac’s thigh. Finally, though, his eyes flick upward, catch hers; she nods.

“Come on, then,” she murmurs, softness in her voice. Phryne looks up. For one spare moment, her eyes are startled, uncertain, a rare exposed moment passing between them, hidden from Jack as he stands and makes his way across the room. Mac gentles her with a stroking hand to the side of her neck. Phryne wants this, and won’t take it on her own. Mac wants it for her, and will help her. 

Jack looks unsure, standing before them; his hand stretches out, as though to touch Phryne’s hair, but she and Mac are too entangled, too solidly together. Mac nods, again, and Phryne leans back on her heels, reaches her hand up to take Jack’s. He pulls her to her feet; only a whisper of air stays between their bodies as Phryne leans up, covers his mouth with her lips.

His hands clutch uncertainly at Phryne’s waist; it floods Mac with tenderness, that gentle little grasp. She stands, too, leans in to kiss the side of Phryne’s neck, and says, “We’d best go upstairs.” Don’t want one of the others wandering down in search of wee hours snack and finding them entangled together.

They part with reluctance; Mac wonders, as she leads the way up to Phryne’s bedroom – the best of the lot, mountain-facing and big – if they will allow themselves more, after this night. 

The door shut closed behind them, Phryne takes both their hands, pulls them toward the bed. Undressing is unhurried and a bit clumsy, hands every which way on buttons and knots, tugging at hems and waistbands. Before he touches her, Jack catches Mac’s eye with an unspoken question; she nods, and guides his hand to her hip, where it lingers as Phryne works open the buttons of her fly and helps guide the waistband over her hips. 

Soon enough, Mac is releasing the back fasteners to Phryne’s brassiere as Jack works the straps off her shoulders, and skimming her silk knickers off her hips to fall to the floor. Jack stares at Phryne’s naked body, frankly and with disbelieving desire, and Mac steps up closer, holding Phryne between them, her hands on Phryne’s hips. For the moment, Phryne is pliant and quiet, watching Jack’s gaze on her, leaning into Mac’s supporting body. That won’t last.

Indeed, as soon as Jack steps close enough to touch Phryne’s side, she pulls him closer by the waistband of his shorts, pressing her body tight against his. “Oh, Jack,” she says, and it holds only a hint of her usual coyness. 

He’s not looking at Mac at all as he brings his mouth down to Phryne’s, but Mac doesn’t begrudge him his singular attention. After all, she knows what it is to be caught in Phryne’s orbit, your celestial path set so long as she shines on you. 

It is Phryne, then, who breaks the kiss and reaches back for Mac, turning her head so Mac can bring their mouths together, and grasps Mac’s hand to intertwine it with Jack’s. She knows Phryne doesn’t expect – well, Jack is handsome and charming, but there are certain pleasures she’ll decline from any man – she knows Phryne knows. Phryne wants them both, wants them together, and Mac has long since stopped considering it greediness; it is rather like Phryne takes all her pleasures, with kindness and abundance. 

So when Phryne pulls away, gently, Mac leans into her body, over her shoulder, and kisses Jack on the corner of his mouth. He flushes at that, more than anything yet, goes pink with surprise, which gives Mac a thrill of pleasure. 

Phryne grasps their clasped hands, weaves her way from between them, and tugs them to the bed. Broad enough for the three of them abreast, it is laid high with pillows, a satin quilt under their skin. Phryne stays between them, pulling them close enough that her whole body is encompassed, so they might touch her everywhere: Mac’s hand on her hip, fingertips teasing at the edges of the curls between her legs, Jack’s thigh pressed against her, his cock flushed and hard against his stomach. 

Mac has wondered, before, if one of the reasons Phryne likes having her in bed is that it allows her a little slackness, the pleasure of taking a partner who will coax her body into softness and pliancy. At least, she’s never stopped making jokes about Mac’s bossy bedside manner. 

She won’t take charge this time, though; this is not a time for Phryne to go along. Instead, she slides her hand down Phryne’s thigh, guiding her leg up, bringing her calf to rest on Mac’s. Jack takes her meaning, trailing his fingertips up her pale inner thigh, watching the trembling of her muscles, before he spread her open with two fingers and just looks. 

As in all things, Phryne likes to be looked at in bed: to be beheld, cherished. Over her shoulder, Mac cannot see the movement of his hand, but she can feel the little jolts of Phryne’s body, involuntary but desired. He is slow: she should have expected that, but didn’t. Thought his eagerness might overwhelm, but she might have thought instead of his deliberate ways of handling cases, attentive and measured.

So he watches, stroking her cunt purposefully and unhurried. Mac drags her fingertips up Phryne’s side, all the long length of her, and cups the soft fullness of her breast. Arching the lean curve of her back, Phryne presses her body against Mac’s until their breath comes together, Mac’s catching a moment after Phryne gasps. Mac’s cunt is flooded, throbbing, like she can feel Jack’s hand just the same.

Tilting her head back, Phryne offers up the curve of her neck, more a demand than a gift, and Mac drops her head, brings her mouth to the join of her shoulder, bites. She can imagine: Phryne’s eyes fluttering closed, mouth open and panting wetly, cunt spread open and glistening under Jack’s hand. 

“Come on, darling,” she says, feeling daring. This is the edge of something, something that has been building since the first time Phryne stomped into the City South Police Station. Perhaps since Mac linked arms with her on the docks of the port, gleeful to be reunited with her friend after many years’ absence. Things will be different tomorrow.

Phryne gasps one sharp _yes_ and shoves her hips against Jack’s hand, body trembling in Mac’s arms. She strokes Phryne’s skin, bruised under her teeth, and in the lull, silent but for Phryne’s heaving breath, presses a kiss behind her ear. Then Phryne is twisting, hair stuck to her temples and grin broad as she straddles Mac and shoves one hand between her legs.

The moments are a tangle after this: Jack’s mouth on her neck and Phryne’s on her cunt; wetness and sweat slick on her skin, sharp on her tongue; the exhausted rasp of three panting bodies. They wind down, curl into one another, lazy claims made to space and to limbs, and doze.

In the soft grey hours just before dawn, Mac slips away from the pressed-close bodies in Phryne’s bed. Soon enough, her friends will all be stirring for breakfast, but in the meantime, she’s too fond of her own bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Elizabeth Bishop's "January First":
> 
> The year's doors open  
> like those of language,  
> toward the unknown.  
> Last night you told me:  
> tomorrow  
> we shall have to think up signs,  
> sketch a landscape, fabricate a plan  
> on the double page  
> of day and paper.  
> Tomorrow, we shall have to invent,  
> once more,  
> the reality of this world.  
> ...


End file.
